


Enough

by Spinning_Mouse



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Eluvians, M/M, Mention of lost limb, Trespasser Spoilers, bioware hasn't given me a reason it couldn't go like this, everyone is sad for a bit, i mean it could technically happen, not exactly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 14:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17367335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_Mouse/pseuds/Spinning_Mouse
Summary: Some people just aren't great at communicating





	Enough

“I’m going back to Tevinter. For good this time.”

“…I see.”

There it was, the expression Dorian had been dreading for weeks. He hated the way the Inquisitors face went blank, a careful picture of neutrality usually reserved for particularly difficult nobles he was trying very hard not to hit. It was not pleasant to see it turned on him.

“My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe. I received notice this morning. A perversely cheerful letter congratulating me on assuming a seat in the magisterium. We only met a few times while I was home. He never said anything about keeping me as his h eir. This ‘ambassadorship’…his doing, I’m told. He must have wanted me away when the trouble began. I _have_ to go back.”

Rasan’s face softened, if just a fraction.

“I am sorry about your father. However complicated, I know it must be difficult for you.”

“It still doesn’t feel real.”

There was a beat of silence. Dorian had prepared himself for questions, had told himself he would keep it light, had tried to plan for it. The sending crystal weighed in his pocket as if it knew its place as some sort of sad consolation prize. 

_No,_ Dorian scolded himself, _It’s not the end, it’s just-_

“I should go find Josephine. We have things to discuss before the council.”

Rasan gave a quick bow of his head, face drawn back to something neutral. And then he was gone, striding away, back held straight and shoulders obviously stiff even from a distance.

It didn’t take long for Dorian’s initial shock to turn to anger. How _dare_ he! Dorian had known the elf would be difficult, but he hadn’t expected him to _run away_.

In the early days of their relationship Dorian had always seen Rasan as the steady one. He had never judged Dorian, never fret over what it meant to be with another man, never shared Dorian’s fears of relationships. Rasan didn’t carry the same baggage Dorian did like leaden weights tied to his heart.

No, he had his own to worry about, as Dorian would find out. He could practically hear the thoughts running through his lover’s head. The fears he’d held onto all these years no matter what Dorian or anyone might say. Fears of choosing between losing himself and being rejected by new found friends in a new life. Fears Dorian had just proven justified, or so he likely thought. 

Even if it _was_ what he thought, that’s how he planned to leave things? A quick “Oh I see, well good luck then, off you go” and nothing else? They’d been together for years now! Dorian had no intention of letting him get away that easy.

Dorian fully planned to march right after the Inquisitor, grab his arm, dramatically pull him in, declare his love and offer the sending crystal, making Rasan look the foolish rash one in front of all their friends and the nobles he so hated.

Things didn’t quite work out like that. In fact, they got rather complicated rather fast. Before he had a chance to say a word, they were distracted and thrown into an unexpected adventure. Eluvians winding through the fade and ancient elven structures, Qunari hording explosives and lyrium as they planned a massive attack; it was all very exciting.

Until it wasn’t.

“Why didn’t you tell me!”

Dorian gripped Rasan by both shoulders, staff abandoned on the ground, watching in horror as violent green sparks ripped across the Inquisitor’s left arm. Rasan grunted and gasped with pain, kneeling over with his jaw clenched tight as he fought against it. 

“I could have-I don’t know, I could have _done_ something you bloody bastard.”

Rasan said nothing. His breathing was evening out at least, a sign the pain was passing. For now.

“Were you even going to tell me at all?”

He should hate the way his voice broke, hate the vulnerability shining through the cracks while the others watched on. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care at all.

Rasan looked up, expression such a mess of emotions Dorian couldn’t pick any of them out to identify. The other man reached out with his good hand, gently bringing Dorian’s forehead to rest against his own. Warmth radiated from his skin, mixed with sweat and dirt and grime. His hand rested against Dorian’s cheek, gentle and sweet. This was one of the Inquisitor’s favorite expressions of intimacy, done during late nights and after bloody fights when the surprise of survival was still fresh. It was a gesture more laden with meaning than any other could ever be. It said everything words couldn’t express.

Dorian had never hated the Inquisitor more.

It was over before it had really begun. The Qunari had been stopped, but a new threat emerged, something more terrible than any of them could have imagined. Even Rasan’s survival was bittersweet, full of more hurt and pain as he stumbled back through the eluvian, left arm reduced to a charred stump. They rushed him back to the palace where he told them in clipped tones through gritted teeth what had happened.

It wasn’t long before he and Dorian were alone, taking a couple of hours to give the Inquisitor a chance to rest after his wound had been healed as much as possible. Soon they would have their final meeting with the Exalted council. 

It wasn’t until the door was shut and locked, not until faint footsteps of retreating healers completely disappeared, that the Inquisitor broke. He slumped against Dorian, entire body heaving with violent sobs, tears mixing with dirt that hadn’t yet been cleaned from his face. They stained Dorian’s robes, seeping through the layers the longer they sat there together. Rasan spoke through it all, though it was nearly incomprehensible the way he mixed Elvish and common. Dorian could only understand the occasional word or phrase. He caught “Solas” and “Dread wolf” more than once. 

Eventually, inevitably, the tide slowed. The sobs became softer and further apart until they vanished completely, leaving the two men in a quiet embrace. 

“I don’t understand,” Rasan whispered, voice raw, “why did this happen? Any of this? Why the lies, the twisted stories? Why wouldn’t he listen? He was a brother to me, so why?”

Rasan inhaled sharply, and for a moment Dorian thought it would start again.

“Why am I never good enough? Not for him, not for you, not for this fucking council. What am I not doing? What am I doing wrong?”

Dorian felt his heart crack with every word. He’d thought it already lay on the ground in shards. How was there always more to break?

“Rasan,” he said quietly. The Inquisitor made no effort to move, so Dorian took the initiative, gently extricating himself until he gripped the Inquisitor’s shoulders with both hands. The elf didn’t fight the movement, but he didn’t help either, still slumped where he sat, eyes facing downward and looking at nothing.

“Rasan. _Rasan_ , look at me.” He moved both hands to hold his lover’s face, firm but not forceful as he angled it towards him. Tear streaks lined the other’s face, crisscrossing over the now red, puffy skin. 

Dorian waited, seconds stretching into minutes before Rasan finally met his eyes. 

“I love you. More than anyone in the world, I love you, and I always will. No matter where we are, or how far apart, that will always be true until the day I die. I need you to understand that. I need you to believe me when I say it. _I love you_.”

There was nothing he could do about the pain in his lover’s eyes, nothing he could do to change what happened. And as much as it hurt, as much as a part of him screamed that he was making a mistake, he would not change the path he set for himself. 

But if nothing else, he would do this. The world around them could burn, but he would not leave things between them broken. It had taken so much to have in the first place. He was not about to let go.

For a while he thought Rasan wouldn’t answer at all. The other man was quiet for so long it made his stomach twist with even more worry, if that were possible. When he did speak, it was strangely steady.

“Ar lath Ma Vhenan.” 

These words he knew. Dorian leaned forward, pausing an inch from Rasan’s face, giving him the chance to pull away. Instead, Rasan closed the gap, and it was the closest thing to a happy moment Dorian had since he’d arrived at this bloody palace.

The rest was, well, history. Or history in the making, as it were. Dorian had helped Rasan get ready, cleaning him up, changing his clothes, using bits of ice magic to take away the puffiness and swelling in his face. It was all a little awkward, working around the missing arm. Rasan wouldn’t look at it. Dorian didn’t want to, but he forced himself. A part of his mind was already working on it, riffling through old knowledge of enchanted prosthetics he’d seen and read about. A list was already forming of people he could talk to, plans were already being made. He would bring it up with Rasan later, when the wound wasn’t so fresh.

Then the council met, the Inquisition was disbanded in a properly dramatic fashion (Dorian couldn’t help but be a little proud of the theatrics), and the beginnings of secret plans were made to deal with the Dread Wolf. Rasan still called him Solas, which led to more than a few shared glances between the rest of them, but apparently they all knew better than to say anything about it.

Everyone left, one by one, off to live their lives however they saw fit or attend to new duties if they had them. It was a strange feeling, knowing it was just the two of them left. There would be no more get togethers with the inner circle, no more nights at skyhold, no more Inquisition. The two of them were all that was left, and soon they wouldn’t even have that. 

“So, what does the former Inquisitor plan to do with his time now? Will you be going back to your clan?”

Rasan shrugged.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

The words stung more than they should have. Probably more than Rasan had meant them too. At least he knew Rasan would be happy there. The elf had never lost contact with his clan, constantly sending letters back and forth, and even visiting far more often than was proper once Corypheous had been defeated. It was something of a comfort to know he still had that.

“Well, before I ride off into the sunset to spend my days politicking and hunting down all the people giving Tevinter a bad name-I have something for you.”

Rasan raised an eyebrow. 

It took Dorian a few seconds to find it buried among his things, carefully tucked where he was sure he wouldn’t lose it. He took Rasan’s hand so he could press it into the palm and enjoy the way the elf’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“Sending crystal. Amazing what a friendship with the Inquisition can get you. Anytime you miss my velvety voice-magic!”

“These are rare.” Rasan turned the small crystal over in his hand as he examined it. Or pretended to examine it, as Dorian assumed, to try and hide the sadness creeping into his expression.

“Now now, don’t pout or they’ll put that expression on a statue. Then you’ll be sorry.”

That got him to look up. Finally, _finally_ , a ghost of a smile graced his lovely face. 

“As long as they get the ears right I don’t think I’d care very much.”

“Ha! You say that now, but just you wait. Soon small children will run screaming around it in circles trying to mimic the sorry expression.”

“As long as they’re having fun.”

“Oh you are impossible. Do you know that?”

“And you’re an ass. Do you know that?”

It was a real smile, shining like a light in the dark, or a million other disgustingly sentimental metaphors. It was his favorite thing in the world, so he couldn’t help but give one back. 

“Well, are you going to kiss me goodbye or not?”

He did.

They spoke almost every night. It became like a ritual; take a bath, change clothes, use a rare magical device to talk to your lover about your days before going to bed. It wasn’t the same as being together in person, of course. He still ached when he thought about it, when he wished to feel the warmth and the closeness, to see the other man’s face. But it was far better than slow letters, which of course gave his servants far fewer opportunities to try and embarrass him. A win all around.

The first six months flew by. It was a whirlwind of grating politics, with his very few wins barely making up for the many, many losses. It was to be expected, of course, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

This day had been particularly difficult. Every conversation had been a new battle, every step besieged by some new problem. Even his face was sore from all the fake smiling. 

“Please tell me a bath is already waiting for me,” He whined as he stepped through the door to his home. 

“My lord, a package arrived for you today.”

“I swear if it’s another damned fruit basket-“

“It came from Kirkwall, my lord.”

That was hard to ignore. He knew at least two people who had property in Kirkwall who might send him something. Curiosity overwhelmed his exhaustion, so he allowed the servant-a slim, no nonsense elven woman-to lead him to the other room where they were keeping it. He didn’t understand why they’d felt the need to tuck it away until he saw it. They must have moved it because of the size, to prevent it from being an eyesore in the front room. None of them would understand why the blood drained from his face now.

“My lord…?”

“Nobody is to touch this. Nobody is to go near it. Nobody is to even know it’s _here_. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He moved it with a mixture of his natural strength and magic, avoiding any direct contact as he squirreled it away in the cellars beneath the house, ignoring the strange looks of the servants all the while. He pushed it back into a corner where it could stay unseen, then threw up every ward and barrier he could imagine. In theory, nobody but him should be able to get anywhere near it. 

Someone had sent him an eluvian.

The surface shimmered, as inviting as a pristine lake would be in the middle of summer. Where was it inviting him to, exactly? As flattering as the idea of being led into a trap by the great Fen’Harel himself was, it seemed unlikely. He was hardly the biggest threat to the ancient elven god. But as far as he knew, the Dread Wolf had taken over the entire eluvian network. Who else _could_ have sent it?

He knew so little about these things. Even the greatest libraries of Tevinter had almost no information about the ancient elven magic. Well, at least not about magic they would admit was elven.

He should tell Rasan, get his opinion and the help of their friends while he kept this thing safe and locked away. Then again, that could take weeks, months even. What would happen in the meantime? What would come through this thing? How could he sleep, knowing it was here? What if the Qunari had retained some of them? What if Venatori scraps found it? He wouldn’t even be able to allow his servants to stay in good conscience. Every minute they shared a space with the eluvian he put them at risk as well.

This left him with precious few options. Either he got rid of it now, or…

Well, it’s not like it would be his first time going through one, right? Sure, he didn’t know much about them, and walking through one was just as likely to put you in a blighted corner of the deep roads or the bottom of a lake as it was to put you on top of a castle with a beautiful mountain view, but since when had a little life threatening danger stopped him before?

He stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it. It was a unique feeling, walking through an eluvian, that was best described as passing through dry water. He was instantly on alert the second he passed through, staff gripped tightly and muscles tensed for combat.

He was…back in the cellar?

No, this wasn’t his, though he couldn’t say where he was, exactly. The place was empty besides the eluvian as far as he could tell, and clearly not taken care of if the mustiness was anything to go by. He couldn’t see much either. The only light was the very, very soft glow coming from the eluvian itself, which just barely illuminated the small space.

“Dorian?”

He spun, staff held out at the ready, only to find himself facing a small staircase, lit by a lamp held out by a very, very familiar person.

“ _Rasan?_ Is that you?”

They stared at each other. Rasan slowly finished his descent, gently placing the lamp on the floor.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Is this real? I’m not in fade am I? That would be terribly upsetting.”

“No, this is real. You’re in Kirkwall, Dorian. I’m sorry, I…didn’t realize you already got it.”

“What on earth are you talking about? This mirror is yours? You know about this?” 

Rasan held his hands out as if he were placating a frightened animal.

“I do. It’s a long story, some people in my clan were working with Varric’s old friend-Merrill, do you remember the name? -they’ve been working on eluvians for the last few years, ever since Morrigan came to the Inquisition. They haven’t found many and they’re all broken in some way, not connected to the main network anymore. The magic is old and difficult to work with, but there’s been-there’s been some progress. There isn’t much else they can do with these specific eluvians anymore, however, and since they aren’t connected to the old network anymore, Solas can’t use them or find them. So I sent one to you. I just…”

He spoke in a rush, dumping the words as if he couldn’t get them out fast enough. 

Dorian tried to digest the words. He tried to focus on the important things, the major revelations that he’d just heard. But he found himself staring instead. He watched the way Rasan’s mouth moved as he spoke, the nervous gestures his hand made, the little details of his face changing with his expressions. He looked at the tailor-made clothes, tightly fitted across his chest and cut in simple yet modern styles. They’d been embroidered with Dalish imagery, and of course he still walked barefoot, one thing he’d always refused to compromise on. His hair hung down, only the top portion pulled back into a small braid to keep it out of his face. Dorian had gotten so used to him keeping it in a tight ponytail he’d almost forgotten this sight. If only he never had to look away. 

“Amatus.” He hadn’t even heard the last several seconds of whatever Rasan had said. He took the opportunity to step in close, taking Rasan’s hand in his own, solid and warm and very _real_. Rasan smiled.

“Vhenan.”

The response was so immediate, so heartfelt that Dorian couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are you trying to tell me that you took two eluvians-two of the most powerful magical objects in all of Thedas-that your people have been working to restore for _years_ , and you sent one to Tevinter, the heart of the Venatori, full of people who still want to kill you, so that you could see me?”

Rasanon Lavellan, former Inquisitor, the supposed Herald of Andraste who single handedly struck down an ancient magister with a dragon at his side claiming to be a god, a man who could have gone to war with the Chantry itself and won, huffed like a small child upset they’d been caught doing something naughty. 

“Must you always make everything sound like it’s about you?”

“Of course! It’s completely boring otherwise.”

Rasan laughed, a clear, beautiful sound, leaning in until he was entirely too close for propriety. 

“Well you may be a little right this time, so I’ll give you that.”

“Just a little?”

“Are you going to kiss me or not, _Magister_ Pavus?”

He did.

**Author's Note:**

> This was very much a self indulgent thing, since Dragon Age has been on my mind so much since the DA4 teaser. I've been trying to finish an old Overwatch fic, but it's been a struggle. When I can't do longer stuff I let myself do one shots. Not exactly a masterpiece, but it's the best i can do right now, and at least a fun little exercise for me. I just want Dorian Pavus to be happy. DA4 had better deliver.


End file.
